


Brat

by Scarlet_Ribbons



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Sex, Bottom Sam, Dirty Talk, Footjobs, M/M, Not that Sam learned anything, Panties, Punishment, Sam's a sex kitten, Seduction, Sexual Tension, Teasing, Top Dean, Underage - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-29
Updated: 2016-06-29
Packaged: 2018-07-18 22:13:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7332742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scarlet_Ribbons/pseuds/Scarlet_Ribbons
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean tries so, so hard to be good and sane and well within the line that he's not even vaguely tempted to cross, no, nope-- fuck, but Sammy, he's so coquettish when he smiles lazily up at Dean and speaks the language of sin and wraps himself up in lace like he's Dean's birthday present come early, and that's about when Dean starts to realize that even his best efforts may be worth absolutely nothing at all. </p>
            </blockquote>





	Brat

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ShadowBiscuit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShadowBiscuit/gifts).



> I've been really AWOL lately struggling with writer's block, but inspiration has finally hit. Here's a little something that's not even half of what you deserve, my lovely ShadowBiscuit. I hope you'll enjoy it anyway <3 I love, love, love you! Happy belated birthday, darlin'!

Dean tries so, so hard to be good and sane and well within the line that he's not even vaguely tempted to cross, no, nope-- fuck, but Sammy, he's so coquettish when he smiles lazily up at Dean and speaks the language of sin and wraps himself up in lace like he's Dean's birthday present come early, and that's about when Dean starts to realize that even his best efforts may be worth absolutely nothing at all.

* * *

The haze of full-blown desire first hits Dean like a head-on brick wall collision a day after Sammy's fourteenth birthday, when he turns the most dangerous age.

He knows the day because he's memorized the date, let it burrow its way into his chest and sear into his heart; it's the first day he jacked off with his senses full of  _Sammy_. It was a gloriously sticky-hot May day, the first of a lot of sticky-hot May days. Dean remembers his father gearing for a hunt, brow furrowing at the blazing sun, his words gruff with reluctance. Their father is human, after all, and succumbs, if reluctantly, to the forces of nature when he's not being too prideful and insulting the rain. "You see that, boys? That's a goddamned heat wave 'f I've ever seen one." 

Sammy grunts softly in acknowledgement, apparently too hot to grace John with a response. He is sprawled on his back on the couch, skin potentially glued to the humid black leather, one long leg thrown indolently, daringly over the backing of the couch and the other stretched to its limit along the cushions; Dean's eyes are helplessly drawn to the strip of bare, browning skin between shirt and tiny denim shorts, and he forces them away when Sam wagers a half-lidded, languid glance at him. Sam started cutting his shorts on his own when the baggy jeans garnered laughter, yet Dean has an idea that no one's laughing at Sam anymore. Kid's got legs for miles, copper from the sun and limber from how much he's always running. He's faster than Dean these days, or at least his steps cover more ground, and it is a fact of great annoyance to Dean and great triumph to Sam. 

"Alright, you two," John hefts his bag over his shoulder and tucks his guns away before leveling both boys with alternating stern gazes. "I shouldn't have to tell you this, but... Behave. Dean, I'm sorry you can't come this time, I just feel like it may be too dangerous. Never hunted this creature before. Watch-"

"-out for Sammy," Dean finishes patiently, determined not to dare another look at his catlike brother draped over the tattered, frumpy couch. "Got it, Dad." He doesn't care if he's inexperienced, just please, save him from his brother's spell. 

With another nod at them, John leaves for his hunt, and the two of them hear the truck come to life with a tremendous, if somewhat creaky roar outside before the puttering fades into the distance. Dean swallows as he closes the door behind his father, not daring to glance back at Sam as he does. But he can't resist, and risks a side glance at his brother as his fingertips lift away from the doorknob. 

Sam's arm peels away from his forehead, each finger extending maddeningly slowly and deliberately before he draws the bowl of grapes sitting on the couch next to his foot towards himself lazily. 

"Grapes?" He questions with what Dean knows to be, despite his head half-hazy from the heat (and Sam), an achingly sultry purr. "Wanna share with me?" Dean shakes his head no, uncrosses his legs from his guarding position near the door, sort of slinking for the singular, broken recliner before picking up one of his magazines. Sam can't get to him if Dean isn't looking, right? Right. "Oh. Too bad," Sam murmurs blithely, lifting his hand so the bottommost grape dangles about a millimeter above the seam of his lips. Dean almost visibly flinches when the tip of Sam's tongue extends out to lick at the round of the grape.

The damned kid only has eyes for him through all of this, too. Fucking Sam, too much for Dean. It's like too much of a good thing.

Sam has graduated from kittenish licks to lewd sucking, lips pursed around most of the plump grape and throat working tirelessly for such a tiny fruit. Dean grits his teeth, denim tightening almost uncomfortably around his crotch as Sam's foot swings back and forth in a tiny arc, and watches his brother's Adam's Apple bob as he swallows. 

"Knock it off," he manages through tight teeth, resisting the urge to cup himself through his jeans. He settles for adjusting himself instead with a grumpy, annoyed groan as he scowls at his brother. Well, fuck; he _is_  a teenager. 

Sam has the audacity to look slightly scandalized. "Just eating my grapes." He parts his lips, teeth nipping the stem so that the grape falls right between his lips, and then with a wet pop, he sucks it into his mouth and chews lazily, fingertips playing along the hem of his boy shorts. Sam uses the heat as an excuse these days to wear obscenely little, and he is just a sight to see, his hand stroking over his slender thighs in an epitome of sheer sensuality. He pretty much wears skimpy sleeveless slips and his tiny shorts, walking around like he expects every Tom, Dick, and Harry to throw him down and fuck him silly. John doesn't care fuck all, he's out of the motel most of the time anyway. It's Dean who has to stay and look out for his luscious brat of a brother. 

Dean closes his eyes, mentally groans, and then darts a glare at Sam; it's weak and not at all a deterrent to his little brother. After all, sam knows Dean doesn't mean the expression at all. Sam smiles filthily, suckles another grape into his mouth with  _another_  resounding pop, and licks his lips.

It's going to be a long fucking day, and that's even after Dean practically hurts himself jerking off twice. 

\---

Sam, at this age, is like a fruit in Persephone's garden. Inviting and succulent and absolutely delicious, but one bite and you'd never leave. Forbidden and sweet and tart all at once, and who'd want to leave? One bite into Sam's skin and you'd go punch drunk from how his sun-warmed skin melts on your tongue. Sam goes out of his way to be every bit as inviting as possible, and it fucks with Dean's head. 

He and the kid are at one of several hidden bars- (yeah, he shouldn't be smuggling Sam into bars, but whatever) -and Sam's making his most infamous inviting eyes. Beseeching, dewy hazel eyes at every trucker that goes by, and the douches give him the appreciative once-over, hitch their jeans over their beer bellies, and leer at him as they walk by. It drives Dean batshit crazy, watching Sam giggle and suck on cherries and bat his eyelashes, but there's nothing he can really do about it. Sam and is fruit are partners in crime; the way Sam sucks on clementine slices, goes down on bananas, and licks the seeds off of strawberries has never failed to make Dean go half-hard right off the bat.  

"Hey, Dean." Sam leans in, close to his ear, and Dean doesn't miss the way Sam's teeth nip at his earlobe. He tries to keep his gaze averted, but Sam's breath bears the sweet scent of ripe cherries and his silk-soft hair fans along the shell of Dean's ear, and Dean can't help but cock his head a little to the side and shiver in response. Always fruity. "Y'see that kid over there," Sam continues, and Dean follows his eyes until they land on a cheerful looking blonde boy. He's cute enough in that hopeful schoolboy way, also too young, maybe a couple years older than Sam, but Dean's gut twists as Sam goes on. It's crazy, how such dirty words come out of those sweet, glossy, cherry juice stained lips. "You think he'd be noisy? Betcha I can take all of him at once. In my mouth. One lick against his cock and he'll come right down my throat. Maybe he'll grab my hair, really shove into my face, but I doubt it. He looks like he'd take it slow, Dean, not like you. He looks like he'd ask me out on a date, first. But not you, right? You're rough," he breathes, undulating his hips once. "Rough and fast and explosive."

"Sam, for the love of God, stop," Dean begs, turned back to the counter so the extension of wood hides his obvious erection. It's kind of painful, shoving it up against the rough edge, but the brief spark helps to clear Dean's mind just a little bit. Sam keeps this up, he's gonna make his brother come in his pants. Little shit knows it, too. He knows he's got Dean on a hook, that he's making all the rules.

Sam eats more cherries.

"Probably fucks like a little boy." Sam goes on idly, legs swinging back and forth languidly as Dean pushes himself up against the wood in an attempt to practically maim himself so he doesn't feel so damn aroused. Sam saying 'fuck' is almost awkward to Dean, because how can something that looks so pure say something that dirty? But Sam, Sammy isn't pure. Sammy is sin with shaggy hair and dimples, and he uses them without abandon. "Bet he has a tiny cock, too, probably all sweet and embarrassed when he reveals it. Don't you think, De?" He pauses. "That's not a bad thing, y'know..." He adds, looking almost coy as he sucks on the pits of four or five cherries. 

Dean grits his teeth. He wonders if Sam would be sweet and embarrassed if Dean ripped out that belt, lashed the little tease's wrists together, and fucked him nice against the hood of the sun-warmed Impala until his toes curled in his worn out Keds. Probably not. Sam would writhe, needy and unashamed and oh so fucking tight, and take it like a good boy. 

He barely catches the tail end of Sam's victory smirk when his come soaks his jeans.

-

"You ever been fucked, Dean?" 

Dean's washing the 'Pala. Hose streaming water, arms hanging loose, he squints at Sam. Thinks it's a joke, which is a sad, sad mistake. So he grins, white teeth in the shining sun, and shakes his head from side to side, seeking an opportunity to get back at Sam for all the grief he's given him. "Nah, I usually do the fucking." 

Sam's next words stop him cold. "Yeah, so does Jay Gardner." So much for getting back at Sam. 

He aims the hose away, eyebrows furrowing as his mouth parts. Before he even has a chance to say fuck all, Sam keeps going, hopping down from the trunk and leaning out to catch a handful of the spray. It bursts between his fingers, droplets glittering like little diamonds against the boy's palm. 

"He's got a huge dick, Dean. Lacey Caraway told me that, that when he fucks her, he practically breaks her open. 'S true, too." Sam says, almost thoughtfully, like he'd be first in line to get fucked. 

Dean turns the hose on Sam, soaking the hazy embodiment of sin in cool, gushing water with only slight satisfaction. "Don't fucking talk like that, Sam. How would you know if it's true, anyway?" Chest, his chest hurts. Stomach turns. He doesn't want to hear Sam's answer, because when he looks at Sam, slender hips, bony shoulders, he imagines Jay Gardner- some fuckwit at school with more cock than brains -pressing delicate little Sam down by the small of his back and- 

"I just know," Sam says, words blurred around the water. His hair is plastered to his cheeks and neck and forehead, erratic chestnut curls, and he just looks at Dean like he's waiting for Dean to do something. Like he needs Dean to do something. Dean curls his fist tight around the hose and doesn't want to entertain how Sam knows how fucking Jay Gardner feels.

"Oh my god, Dean." Sam sighs, drops of water rolling down his neck and dripping from his clothes. He could've wrung 'em out. The water highlights the contours of Sam's slender little body as it plasters his clothes down. "It's nothing like you've ever done. Full and deep and so tight inside, like you're being filled to the brim. Huh, Dean?" He licks his lips, the brat. 

"How would you know," Dean mutters again, and Sam just smiles at him, blindingly. He _knows_. Somehow, he knows. The bitch of it is that Sam's never actually had sex, but he's good enough with words to piece a few things together and make it sound like he knows everything about everything. 

The boy is going to be Dean's undoing. 

-

Sam gives him one blissful day of nothing, just acts like his little brother. They punch each other sloppily and with no real intent to harm, he dunks Sam's head in the river behind one of their temporary residences- a cabin, one that even John likes. He stalks around, mutters to himself, and breaks into a smile when he looks at his sons. It's the kind of infectious smile that makes them smile right back, the kind of infectious smile that Dean's sure Sam inherited. 

It's all relative, boring niceness, and Dean's relieved; he doesn't know how much more of Sam's antics he can take before he breaks like fine china. Kid's humming innocently beneath his breath now, Creedence Clearwater Revival, and setting the table with three nice, not cracked plates and shiny, well-washed forks. His hips roll once, sending Dean into alert mode, but Sam doesn't even look his direction so Dean sinks back down into the couch to watch.

Sam's fuckin' pretty, after all. Lips pursed as he tries to put the plates as on-point as possible, nose wrinkling with delight when he catches a whiff of the ribs their father is making. Long legs, suntanned and golden- on and on for miles. 

Dean's almost proud of the kid as they sit down for their first family dinner in ages, when it begins.

At first... Nothing. Sam sucks the sauce off a rib into his mouth indelicately, slurping it up like, well, a teenage boy. Then he licks his fingers and sets it down and devours the next one. Elbows on the table, sauce smudging his right cheek. Full attention fixed on the best thing their dad's ever been able to make.

The arch of his foot beneath the table, pressed firmly up against Dean's dick.

Dean hasn't been focused on his ribs since Sam's toes pushed up beneath his dick and started stroking it to hardness, lips still working every drop of sauce from the rib. It's a lethal combination, Sam sucking on bone and his foot gently trailing the length of Dean's now rock-hard dick, and Dean has to hunch forward, almost hurt himself to take his mind off the sensation. He can't stop thinking about his own cock in Sam's mouth, Sam sucking on the head like he's sucking on his rib.

"Son, what's wrong?" Dad looks alarmed, and Dean can imagine why. His jaw is locked, shockingly tight, and there are two bright spots of concentrated color high on his cheekbones. Sam looks up lazily from the bone he's sucking and immediately gives his brother a look of alarm so fake that Dean wants to throw his ribs at him. His foot curves hard over Dean's dick.

"Dean, are you okay?" His siren of a brother stares at him from beneath eyelashes flecked with mirth, a small, funny smile playing across his lips. He's fucking entertained is what he is, toes curling just beneath the head of Dean's cock and Dean closes his eyes, his hips sharply jerking upwards so he's grinding into the silky, playful soles of Sam's feet.

He's going to hell, anyway; Sam's designing the handbasket with sweet, wet kisses and satiny laughter. 

One of Dean's hands slips beneath the table as he grunts out a soft, "Stomach ache." His fingers trap the boy's foot, and he jerks Sam forward by just the body part. Sam moves lightly, startled by Dean's retaliation, and small toes brush hard against his inner thigh. He wiggles them, this time much closer to his shaft, and Dean nearly snaps the rib in two as he fervently tears into it. Sam's tongue drags across his fingers while his foot works furiously, and then Sam is shifting, two long legs stretched beneath the table and both feet rubbing up and down. 

Dean's hand is back on the table again, fingers curling into a napkin until there are holes while his brother jerks him off with his baby feet. Soft, so soft, just the occasional wrinkle or two, heel grinding until it's almost painful. Dean muffles his sounds into the ribs, feigning groans of delight for the food. John seems so pleased by his enthusiasm that guilt rips through him, hot and fresh, and he promises himself he's going to get Sam for this, get him good and hard. Each time the toes nudge into his skin it sends a tiny spark of pleasure straight up and down Dean's spine, leaves him almost continuously trapped in a shiver. 

He corners the brat after dinner, just as John's sinking into the couch with the TV on, and his head is buzzing with lust. Sam's washing the dishes, arms plunged elbow-deep into the soapy water, and he's humming to himself again, something sultry and rich- Bad Company. He definitely is bad company if Dean has anything to say about it, and after he risks a glance at his father, he slinks up behind his brother like a panther and pounces. 

He catches Sam fast and hard, prompting a sharp gasp. Body weight trapping his little brother's against the shelf, and Sam tries to take his arms out of the soapy water. Dean wraps his hands around Sam's elbows and pushes down, a silent warning for Sam to keep his damn arms down where Dean can keep an eye on them. 

"I've had about enough of this, Sam." He growls, teeth curling into an animalistic sneer as he grinds his still hard cock up against Sam's body. "You're a fuckin' tease, you know that? Can't even let a guy enjoy his food can you, brat?" 

"Not a brat," Sam breathes the words out into a sigh, cheeks puffing up with air as Dean's cock drags up against his ass 'cause he's trying to hold back a moan. Dean chuckles, hard and sharp and full of ardor. 

"Oh yes you are," he snarls into Sam's ear, biting down on the soft lobe of Sam's ear. "You're badly behaved and spoiled, Sammy." Sam writhes as if he's insulted, but Dean knows the truth; this kind of thing excites Sam. Makes his body jerk beneath Dean's. He doesn't even have to reach around Sam's hip and curl his fingers around the hardening length to know. "You know what else you are?" he flicks idly at the head of Sam's cock, risking only half a glance back before sliding his other hand is sliding down past the waistband of those accursed shorts. Sam whimpers in question. " _A slut."_

Sam jerks underneath him at the word, letting out a sound like a broken moan, and Dean pauses as his fingertips glide and catch along thin silk.

"Would you look at that," he purrs, grinning like the Cheshire Cat against the back of Sam's neck. He feels around for a moment, and yeah, lace. Sam's wearing fucking panties, his pretty boy, head tipped back into Dean's neck and soft panting expelled from his parted lips. He tries to take his arms out, but Dean forces them back down.

"Uh-uh, baby boy. Keep those down," he says as he pops the button of Sam's shorts. He delves deeper this time until he feels Sam's cock, gently cradled by the smooth silk, and gives it another fierce squeeze.

Sam cries out softly, hips shoving back into Dean's, and Dean releases him as John turns to fix them both with sharp looks. He's obviously a little woozy from the beers he's been ingesting, because Sam's face is flushed, drops of sweat rolling down the side of his face and collecting at the tips of now-glossy chestnut locks. Dean's still got Sam's fucking dick in one hand, and John doesn't even notice or doesn't care either way. He just grunts and turns back around, and Dean's grip tightens until Sam is mewling like the sex kitten he is.

"Not getting away this time, brat," Dean gropes around the silk, heaven and sin beneath his fingers, and strokes just the tip of his finger over Sam's hole. Just enough to tease. Just enough to give Sam a taste. Sam's knees buckle, but Dean's hold on his hip and cock keep him standing. He can feel Sam aching for Dean to move, jerk him off, fuck him with his fingers, anything, and feels like the puppet master for the first time. 

"Dean, p-please," Sam murmurs, thrusting back down against Dean's fingers.

"Needy little brat, aren't you?" Dean wraps one hand around Sam's thigh, parting his legs so his other hand has free reign to fuck up into Sam's hole. Sam actually growls at the way Dean's finger slides up into his heat, the way his body clenches tight and waits. Waits. Flutters as though waiting for Dean to move. Dean takes his time, he's been suffering too long, and rubs another finger up against the first, maneuvering Sam open so he can get another finger in there. Soon enough, he's got Sam teetering up and down on three fingers, his arm supporting Sam's legs as they hang over it. John's out like a light on the couch, TV's still going, and Sam's got two wet fingers shoved into his own mouth so he doesn't wake their father.

"Gotta stop being a tease, Sam," Dean grins, the silk panties draping his hand as he crooks his fingers in Sam's body. Sam whimpers, pulls out his fingers, says, 

"I won't, Dean, not any-"

And Dean guides the kid's hand back into his mouth, corners of his lips curling into something dark and sweet. "Suck, Sam," he commands, and Sam opens his mouth for his fingers again, just as Dean pulls his fingers out with a soft pop. Sam's twitching- this isn't near enough for him, not at all, and Dean knows it. Even as he strokes his own cock a couple times and tugs at Sam's nipples, lazy grin still sprawled across his face, he knows Sam is unable to take the emptiness much longer. He bends Sam over the counter by the hair, fingers entrenched deep into the silky locks and Sam's voice stuttered by his own fingers. 

"Oh, please, Dean, please, please, please," he groans, fitful, yet still manages to look so gorgeous and indolent spread out underneath him like this. The boy is so beautiful, and Dean wants to see him writhe like this, today and every day to come. He wants to make Sam practically cry with pleasure, and he's got years to do it. With one swift punch of his hips, he's sliding into Sam's body, and it's just about every fucking thing he'd ever imagined it to be- Silky and tight around him, like a glove, holding on and not daring to let him leave.

"So slutty, Sammy," he breathes, one finger tapping and tugging at Sam's cock as he drags out and pushes back into the other's body once more. Sam fucking keens, high around his fingers, and his silky eyelashes beat like a frenzied butterfly's wings as he spreads his legs. He looks like he couldn't have imagined anything better than Dean fucking into him like this, but that's just the kind of brat he is. "You think Jay Gardner's got anything on me, hmm?" He purrs, rubbing his cock hard up against Sam's prostate. The boy mewls, the sound almost ripped out of him like a sob.

"No, n-no, h-he-" Sam tries, warbling around his fingers, and Dean snarls as he snaps his hips forward and pistons into Sam's body again.

"What is it?" He taunts, pinning Sam's other hand down to the counter by his wrist. "Having a little trouble admitting that you lied to me? As if you would let Jay Gardner have this tight ass." He leans forward, thrusting nice and easy to make up for all of Sam's fucking teasing. Revenge tastes nice, kind of like Sam's sweat-salt-speckled shoulder. Sam drags in a shuddering breath, grabbing at nothing with his trapped hand. "Oh, yeah. Because you know what, Sam? You're _mine_ , and you know that very well."

Sam can only manage a nod, which is followed by an agonized groan as Dean barely presses against his prostate. "N-Never," he agrees, perspiration glittering on the bared column of his throat, and Dean smirks against the other's bones before biting down on the inside of Sam's neck. 

"Attaboy," he praises, his own breath hitching as he trembles and comes with a sharp, surprised gasp into Sam's body. Sam follows, _untouched_ , his body jerking underneath Dean's hand, and Dean wonders vaguely if it was the bite that unraveled his brother into a mess of copper twine. His brother's legs weaken, knees slumping to the ground as Sam collapses against Dean's calves. 

Dean's not even vaguely done with Sam yet, so he wraps a hand into the brat's hair and smiles, whiskey-sweet and slow as the setting sun catches and glances off his blond hair. "You're in the perfect position to clean up, aren't you Sammy?" He drawls, tugging on his fistful of chestnut-silk curls, and relished the half-stubborn, half-aroused look in Sam's eyes. "Go on, or you're gonna be on your knees for a while." He urges, and Sam's eyes lower obediently before he leans forward to lap at Dean's slit. His cheekbones are flushed with color; Sam's a stubborn little shit, and he's probably embarrassed, but Dean's thrilled and Sam's fucking hot like this. He watches smugly as Sam sucks on the head of his cock with his eyelashes lowered as if sucking Dean clean is his only purpose in life.

"Okay, get up." Dean tugs on his brother, urging the other to his feet, before pointing at the counter. "Oh, you're not done yet." He slides one hand over Sam's flat belly and flicks at his navel, amused by the other's indignant glare. "I didn't raise you to leave messes everywhere, Sammy." He growls, low in his throat, to remind Sam that he's not fucking around. A moment passes, with Sam narrowing his eyes and wondering if he can get away without having to lick the surface clean, but they both know he can't. So under Dean's watchful eye, Sam lowers his head gracefully despite the circumstances and licks the counter clean, nice and neat.

"Good boy," Dean grins, planting a kiss on Sam's mouth, and Sam surges forward to lick as much of his own taste into Dean's mouth. The other is still blushing, but he also looks somewhat pleased. "You learn a lesson about teasing me, Sam?" He questions, still eyeing the other's inviting abdomen.

Sam surprises him by cracking a bright, white-toothed smile complete with dimples. "Are you kidding?" The brat purrs, leaving his shorts unbuttoned as he tugs them up over his silken panties. "All I've learned is that I'm gonna have to do it even more." And then he's headed for the stairs, hips swinging, and oh, Dean's well and truly fucked.

But as he follows Sam's laugh, skipping every other step, he decides that it's not really a bad thing. 


End file.
